


Post Mortem

by keerawa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autopsies, Case Fic, Competency, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock could see everything in a glance, but John had to take his time, follow his instincts when it came to spotting the little details that could crack a case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Post Mortem

**Author's Note:**

> **Thanks to:** [](http://llassah.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://llassah.livejournal.com/)**llassah** for the beta.

The final post mortem report was fourteen pages enclosed in a blank manilla file. Generous for a body with no question of foul play, of cause of death, of … anything at all, really.

At least, not in the opinion of anyone but John Watson.

John opened the file. He began with the two photographs, examining them with a clinician’s eye for detail and a combat medic’s familiarity with the signs of violent death. Next John held up the X-ray film against the lamp, squinting for evidence of anything unexpected. Then he read the entire file, section by section.

John had bullied the full report out of Molly by waiting until she stepped into her tiny office and then standing in the doorway, feet planted, trapping Molly in there and staring at her until she ran out of stammered excuses and lip-bitten refusals and handed over the copy she kept locked in her desk.

Molly was an exceptional pathologist. She’d completed a thorough external and internal examination, run toxicology screens, analyzed the stomach contents, and searched for any discrepancy. There were none. Every piece of evidence in the report was consistent with the trauma inflicted on a human body by impact after falling ( _jumping_ , John corrected himself viciously) from a great height.

But still, there was something wrong with the report. _Reasoning in advance of the data_ , chided a deep voice that existed now only in John’s mind. He ignored it. Sherlock could see everything in a glance, but John had to take his time, follow his instincts when it came to spotting the little details that could crack a case. What was missing?

John had read dozens of post mortem reports in his time with Sherlock. Victims of serial killers and crimes of passion. Urgent cases and cold ones. He’d seen more of Molly’s reports than anyone else’s. She was the only pathologist Sherlock deemed competent to autopsy _his_ cadavers, and the massive wobbly he threw when he didn’t get his way had convinced all the other pathologists at Bart’s to swap their lists around to avoid him. Molly’s reports had a certain familiar rhythm, born of hospital regulations, the repetition of daily paperwork, and the copy-and-paste habits of any modern day office worker.

This report didn’t fit her usual pattern, but it wasn’t because anything was missing. It was _longer_ than it should be. John paged through the file again. Tucked between  Histology and Time of Death was a section titled Identification. In addition to the typical finger-prints, and the less common dental records match, Molly had included a list of nineteen ‘distinguishing marks’, both external and internal, that Sherlock had documented about his person. They ranged from a detailed description of his tonsillectomy scar to a full DNA profile. Which was absolutely bonkers, but did make a twisted sort of sense. Sherlock probably _was_ more likely to be murdered, decapitated, burned beyond all recognition, and then have his remains stuffed in a car boot and put through a crusher than he was to die in his own bed.

The really odd thing about it, John decided, was that Molly had gone through and checked off every single item on the list. Sure, the blood-type was simple enough, the tonsillectomy scar only needed a quick peek with a scope, and the childhood linear temporoparietal fracture would show up on an X-ray. John could almost have believed it was Molly’s own particular coping mechanism; a black-humored tribute to a fallen comrade.

But a full DNA profile? Lestrade was always complaining how it took weeks to get one of those back from the police lab. The lab techs at Bart’s wouldn’t be much faster. Even if Molly decided to perform the test herself, it’d take a good half a day. So why bother? What was the point? It’s not as if the identity of the corpse was in question.

Unless it was.

Unless the identity of the corpse _was_ in question, and Molly knew it. Because whoever that was lying dead on her slab, it was not Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was a bastard. A complete and utter brilliant bloody bastard. Did he think John wouldn’t figure it out? Well, he didn’t know everything, but he had enough of an end free to start tugging, and see what unraveled. Molly was a good start, but Sherlock wouldn’t have kept her up-to-date on where he was going, what he was doing under cover of his own grave. Mycroft. Mycroft must know.

John remembered Mycroft’s still, stone-faced presence at the funeral; the way his voice had cracked when he’d introduced John for the eulogy. The wanker.

John was tempted to go find Mycroft at the Diogenes Club and drag him out of there by the scruff of the neck. But he couldn’t afford to make a scene, to give away the game like that. It might put Sherlock in danger. So John retrieved his service pistol from its hiding place and checked that it was loaded before picking up his cane, shrugging into his jacket, and tucking his pistol away at the small of his back.

John was careful to limp as he made his way down the stairs and onto the pavement, in full view of the nearest CCTV camera. He settled into parade rest there and glared up at the camera. John waited for Mycroft with the infinite, adrenaline-edged patience of a night when the moon was bright enough for the enemy to try the perimeter.

London was a battlefield, and John was back on the front-lines.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Vital Signs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/804460) by [f_m_r_l](https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_m_r_l/pseuds/f_m_r_l)




End file.
